Thursday, January 3, 2008

It: cannot last. This desecration.You shame the mountains. Their ribs corrode.The valley thirsts for decency.This land was gifted. You despoil it.The wells are poisoned. The birds will die.The trees are wasted. You don't belong.The land shall be taken from you.

You : you who bribe the taxi-drivers,who pre-fix awards, decaying scare-crows,public relations artists, youwho bend the knee before The Tourist,care more for comfort than for craft,who lie while shaking hands, whose wordis garbage, you have not earned these hills.

Perhaps the hills are to blame. Perhapsdelusions of grandeur derive from real grandeur.But what fuels appetite for endless quarrel ?Why expel the young like lepers ?Why freeze in cliques, when warmth is pie ?Why squeeze pennies to be gaped at ?The generous gesture is absent here.

So I shall pack my mule and move.And build my tower on a distant hill.Small birds will perch on my swing. The hawkwill hover. And bless. My garden, yield.Eve, return. The cat will humin gratitude. And we shall feedon memory of could-have-been.